


Glam Punk Disco

by theartistprince



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Gen, OOC like woah, irreconcilable music differences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theartistprince/pseuds/theartistprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any soul unfortunate enough to walk into the intimate bar by the name of Musain, located in the heart of Paris, between the years of 1977 and 1979 were subjected to the same argument by the same three men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glam Punk Disco

**Author's Note:**

> If you think I’m going to apologise for this, you are truly, truly mistaking.

Any soul unfortunate enough to walk into the intimate bar by the name of Musain, located in the heart of Paris, between the years of 1977 and 1979 were subjected to the same argument by the same three men.

Their loyalties were clear, indicated by their chosen garb, the way they talked about the opposite sex and amount of eyeliner they chose to wear.

It is important to note that these three friends loved each other deeply, forging a deep fraternal bond over coffee and shared cigarettes. However, in love, there is always a breaking point.

For these three, it was simple.

Irreconcilable musical differences. 

-

“You cannot say you don’t like David Bowie.” Grantaire said bluntly, throwing his hands in the air. “You can’t say that. That is not something people say.” He paused and looked over at Courfeyrac. “Do you like Bowie?”

Courfeyrac made a gesture of indifference with his hand. “I don’t know, man. ‘Rebel, Rebel’ is pretty hot when the punk bitches sing it.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “Must you always disparage women like that?”

“Go write Gloria Steinem if it offends you, Enjy Ramone,” Courfeyrac bit back.

“I just don’t think it’s appropriate to refer to women as bitches, I don’t see the trouble in treating them like human beings!” Enjolras exclaimed passionately.

“Look, you can go home and masturbate to Souxie Soux making out with anarchy and I’ll go impress real girls with my Travolta-level moves,” Courfeyrac snapped back earning a look of disgust from the punk and a shout from Eponine somehow defending both the honour of Souxie Soux and anarchy.

Grantaire slammed his hand on the table loudly. “This is not important right now!”

“I happen to think the rights of women are always important,” Enjolras muttered back.

Grantaire glared at him angrily. “The importance is,” he stressed. “That you don’t like David Bowie.”

“You should read the article about him being a neo-Nazi in ‘Les Connards Parisiens’. It’s very good and it will open your eyes,” Enjolras replied, pouring beer into three tall glasses. Of course, he did this perfectly and without the slightest bit of head lingering at the top. 

This action only served to infuriate Grantaire more.

Then Enjolras uttered the words that would set off yet another round of everyone’s favourite argument.

“Besides, I just don’t really like glam music.”

Who has better taste in music?

Grantaire bit his lip, his rich red lipstick staining his teeth slightly.

He gripped his fists in his silver pants, trying desperately to hold back the urge to strike.

He told himself that it wasn’t worth it, that Enjolras was a musical elitist, that the blond was just jealous when people could play their instruments properly.

Grantaire tried to stay calm, but no one insulted glam music when he was around.

“I can’t believe you just said that!” Grantaire exclaimed angrily, shooting a scathing glare at Enjolras. “What about the New York Dolls?” Grantaire asked. “They’re glam and you love them!” 

Enjolras wrinkled his nose at the insinuation. “They aren’t really glam, they’re proto-punk, like The Stooges.”

“Have you seen their heels?” Grantaire asked incredulously. “Of course they were glam!”

“Speaking of high heels, ‘Taire,” Courfeyrac interjected. “You haven’t worn yours in a while.”

“I snapped the heel on one,” Grantaire said with a small shrug. “I got tickets to the T. Rex gig next month and got too excited.”

Courfeyrac nodded sympathetically. “I felt the same way when I got Bee Gees tickets a few weeks ago.”

From the table next to the mismatched trio, there was an audible groan from Combeferre. Cosette rolled her eyes and took another long sip from her gin and tonic while Eponine paused briefly as she pasted ragged pictures of Patti Smith in her ‘zine, “Les Connards Parisiens”.  
 “Do not ever compare the Bee Gees,” Grantaire said slowly, clear disgust lacing his tone. “With the brilliance of T. Rex.” 

Cosette turned to Eponine. “Do you want to grab some Tabs and go look at records for a bit?”

Eponine nodded quickly, gathering her ‘zine supplies. “Get me the fuck out of here,” she declared, hitching her studded messenger bag onto her shoulder.

“Eponine!” Enjolras exclaimed. “Don’t you want to stay and defend the brilliance of punk rock?”

Eponine turned back to her friend and partner in anarchy and shook her head quickly.   
“Punk speaks for itself, Enjolras. It doesn’t need us to defend it,” she scolded lightly before following Cosette out the door.

“I don’t know why you three continuously fight over the same thing. It’s just music,” Combeferre said calmly. “Everyone is free to enjoy what they want. There’s no sense arguing about it.”

“You like prog rock, you don’t understand,” Grantaire grumbled.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac agreed in a louder tone. “I bought an Emerson, Lake and Palmer album once and didn’t get laid until I excorsized the demon of prog rock from my record player.”

Combeferre shot Courfeyrac a rueful look over his coffee cup and muttered something along the lines of, “As if Geddy Lee has ever had a problem getting a girlfriend.”

“Punk is more than just music!” Enjolras declared passionately. “It’s a movement, it’s a revolution. It’s about throwing down the gauntlet of society and pledging that we can do better! It says that anyone can make art!”

Enjolras laid his palms on the table and stood up. “Perhaps what the Voidroids say is right. Maybe we do belong to the blank generation, but why is that?”

“Probably something to do with our parents not hugging us enough,” Courfeyrac answered with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh God, Enjolras,” Grantaire groaned. “Why don’t you go unlearn the guitar or something?”

“What do you guys think about the new Jethro Tull album?” Marius piped up, eager to join in the musical conversation. His addition was met with the collective groan of his friends.

“Cosette and Eponine are both beyond into you and you don’t use the situation to star in a sexier version of Three’s Company. You don’t get to have an opinion, Marius!” Courfeyrac exclaimed angrily. 

Marius sputtered for a moment. “I fail to see what my romantic entanglements have to do with my taste in music.”

“Courfeyrac’s just bitter because he made the same proposition to Cosette and Eponine, saying he’d make a much better Jack Tripper,” Grantaire exclaimed joyfully before taking a swig of his beer. “They turned him down, of course.”

“It could have been as big as Debbie Does Dallas,” Courfeyrac muttered sadly, looking down at his pint.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and settled back down in his chair. He took a long drink from his pint before sneering at his friends. 

Courfeyrac noticed the dirty look that the punk was shooting him and couldn’t help but capitialize on the situation.

“‘Taire, how man punks does it take to screw in a light bulb?” Courfeyrac asked, a smirk gracing his face.

Grantaire grinned widely, eager to annoy the punk that sat between them. “I just don’t know, Courf, how man punks does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

“Three. One to screw in the light bulb and and two to argue about who did it first!” The two friends dissolved into laughter at Enjolras’s expense. 

Enjolras picked at the poorly-stitched Sex Pistols patch on his red plaid trousers. “Why don’t we talk about your taste in music, Courfeyrac? Could it even be considered a preference if you’re only in it to pick up women at bars?”    
“And your polyester shirts are atrocious,” Grantaire added, wrinkling his nose slightly at the paisley monstrosity that was stretched across Courfeyrac’s chest.

Courfeyrac looked slighted at this insult. His eyebrows drew together as he looked down at his shirt for a moment. “At least I just dance under the disco ball! You’re mistaken for it!” Courfeyrac bit back, indicating towards Grantaire’s silver cat suit.

Turning towards Enjolras, Courfeyrac looked the man up and down. However, Courfeyrac knew enough punks that he was well aware a slight on their fashion sense would be simply met with a sneer and a muttered, “Fuck conformists.”

No, Courfeyrac had to hit Enjolras where it would truly hurt.

“And everyone knows the Sex Pistols ripped off the rift in ‘Pretty Vacant’ from ‘S.O.S’ by the truly superior ABBA,” Courfeyrac shot.

Enjolras’s steel blue eyes narrowed into slits, his smeared eyeliner making the look even more frightening. He ran a studded-glove clad hand through his mess of hair and gave Courfeyrac a dangerous look.

“Inspired by,” Enjolras finally managed to bite out.

“Okay, you three need to stop this. It’s the same argument over and over again. Surely there’s a band all three of you like!” Combeferre exclaimed, eager for his friends to stop fighting.

Grantaire looked at both of his friends, taking in both of their outfits. He racked his brain, trying desperately to find common ground. He knew that The Beatles were out, as Courfeyrac would shake his head and argue about how The Rolling Stones were vastly superior and Enjolras would mutter something about The Who being underrated. 

Enjolras hated music that even graced the Billboard charts. Courfeyrac hated heavy guitars. Grantaire didn’t appreciate the lack of aesthetic sensibility in heartland rock.

Finally, a single thought struck the drunk.

How could he have not thought of it before? There was, in fact, only one band that would staisfy the needs of each of the three men.

“What about Blondie?” Grantaire asked, glancing at both of his friends warily.

Courfeyrac smiled brightly at him. “I like Blondie.”

Both men looked over to Enjolras, whose leather clad arms were crossed over his chest. He sighed heavily and nodded. “I like Blondie too.” 

There was a small cheer from Combeferre and Marius, who were happy their friends could find a common ground. 

“Their early stuff, anyway.”

A collective groan ripped through the cheer.

“Goddamn it, Enjolras!”


End file.
